Stephen Coonts - Jake Grafton 2 - Final Flight

by Final Flight (lit)

  "That's odd. How did he get a nickname like Toad?" Jake pulled the door shut with a bang.

  "He has warts." "You've met my husband, Judith?" Callie smiled. "Oh yes. Captain Grafton." Jake was surprised at the firmness of her handshake. "Good ta see ya again," he muttered just as Toad came out of the bar with a drink in his hand.

  "Here comes our other dinner guest. Lieutenant Tarkington, this is my wife, Callie, and you may remember Judith Farrell." "Mrs. Grafton." Tarkington shook Callie's hand perfunctorily, then nodded at Farrell. "Hello." He received a polite nod and a cool appraisal from Judith Farrell.

  "Well, folks," Jake said. "Let's go get some dinner." He took Callie's arm and led them toward the elevators. There was a small crowd waiting for the express elevator to the restaurant on the top floor of the building. The door opened and the people in front of them climbed aboard. There was obviously room for two more, but not for four.

  "You go ahead," Judith urged Jake and Callie. "We'll catch the next one." Since a smiling Japanese tourist was holding the door open, Jake led Callie through the door, nodding at the man.

  Judith stood silently beside Toad, not looking at him. He kept his gaze focused on the floor lights above the polished metal elevator doors.

  They waited. Several minutes later the doors opened again. They were the only passengers this time.

  On the way up, Judith said, "Nice that you could join us this evening." "Captain Grafton asked me to," he said matter-of-factly. "I suppose he's worried that I might ask too many questions. And Callie is such a nice person. I wonder what she sees in him?" "I'll have you know," Toad shot back heatedly, "that the CAG is one of the finest naval officers I have ever met. He's a gentleman in every sense of the word. He's also a genius with an airplane. He's more than capable of handling a twit reporter who-was "I'll quote you on that," she said lightly as the door opened, revealing Jake and Callie standing there waiting for them. Judith grinned broadly at the Graftons and murmured to Toad as she stepped past, "Buy a paper." Toad was still gaping at her back when the elevator door started to close. He elbowed it open again, his face twisted with fury. No one noticed. Jake Grafton and the ladies were already following the maitre do'. The women giggled together as they proceeded toward a table in the corner with a view of the harbor, and he caught Judith Farrell glancing at his reflection in the windows that lined the wall. Only then did it dawn on Toad Tarkington that he had just been had.

  "Oh, so you're a linguist?" Judith said, looking at Callie. The two women had been carrying the conversation. Judith had been gently probing Callie about her life without her sailor husband while Toad sipped his wine and poked his fork morosely at the garbanzo beans in his salad.

  Jake Grafton seemed content to listen, observe, and nibble, speaking only when spoken to.

  Whenever Callie spoke, however, her husband listened attentively, and whenever she smiled or laughed, his face relaxed into a grin.

  "Yes," Callie said, her eyes seeking Jake. "I've taught in several colleges near where Jake's been stationed, and now I'm translating for a government agency in Washington. It's temporary, but with Jake's career that's the way it has to be." "Is that fair?" Judith asked, looking at Jake, who was gazing contemplatively at his wife. "Captain?" she added.

  "What?" Jake said, finally realizing that he had been addressed. Judith repeated the question and noticed that Callie's hand was now on top of her husband's.

  "Probably not," Jake said. "I never thought so. But that's the way Callie wanted it." He shrugged, and turned his hand over and opened it.

  He smiled at Callie. Their hands remained together.

  Judith Farrell grinned broadly and sat back comfortably in her chair.

  She even found a smile for Toad. Then the waiter brought their dinner.

  Over dessert the conversation somehow turned to the political situation in the Mediterranean.

  "Captain," Judith said, "what will the president do about the kidnappings in Lebanon? Will he use the navy?" "Is this off the record, or on?" "Background. Not for attribution." "Nope. If you want background, go to Washington. They pay flacks to give reporters background. I don't want you to even hint in print that you have ever heard of jake Grafton, or even know "Jake," said Callie.

  "She's just doing her job." "So am I." "Okay. Off the record. A never-said-it noninterview." "I haven't the slightest idea what the president or anyone else in government will do," Jake said and sipped his coffee. Toad chuckled, then swallowed it when Judith glanced at him. "Do you know anything about the terrorist boat incident several weeks ago?" "You mean the one where the boat tried to attack the task group off Lebanon?" "Yes." "I know about it." "What can you tell me about it?" "Judith, I think you're being coy. You know very well I flew that mission and later answered questions at a press conference. You've undoubtedly read some of the stories. You should have been at the press conference.

  We missed you." "Nothing else to say? Is that it?" "I'm not going to sit at the dinner table and tell war stories. That's a bad habit old men fall into. Ask me some questions about something I am qualified to comment on, off the record." The waiter delivered the check and Jake palmed it.

  "I'll help with that," Judith said and reached for her purse. "My treat," Jake said.

  "We should go dutch. I can pay my way.

  "Hey, if you aren't spending a dollar a minute, you aren't having any fun. Tonight I'm having fun. This one's on me.

  "Is he always like this?" Judith asked Callie.

  "When he's on good behavior," Callie told her. "Okay, I have a question you are qualified to comment on. Do you think the law should be changed so that women can serve on all navy ships, in all career specialities?" "Why not? There isn't a job in the navy that a woman couldn't do." "Come on, CAG," Toad scoffed. "You can't mean that! Can you imagine having women in the ready rooms? In the wardroom? The navy would never be the same.

  "It would be different," Jake acknowledged. "But so what? We need their talent and brains, same as we need the abilities of the blacks and Chicanos.

  Sexual segregation is the same as racial segregation. People use the same arguments to justify it. People will see that someday." "You surprise me, Captain," Judith Farrell said softly. "Me, too," Toad sighed gloomily.

  Judith picked up her purse and stood.

  "Thank you for the lovely evening, Callie, Captain Grafton." She walked away without a glance at Toad.

  "Toad Tarkington," Callie said. "You owe Judith and me an apology." "Oh, I didn't mean anything by that, Mrs.

  Grafton," Toad said, reddening slightly. "But the CAG wanted me to get rid of her and I wasn't making much progress on the romantic angle." The whites of Callie's eyes became very noticeable and her lips compressed to a thin, straight line.

  "Thanks a heap, Toad," Jake said disgustedly.

  "Uh, well, I guess I'd better be shoving off." Tarkington rose hastily.

  "Thanks for the fine meal. "Night, Mrs.

  Grafton." He tossed the last phrase over his shoulder as he marched for the elevators.

  "Callie, I'm sorry. I thought Judith and Toad would hit it off." "Oh no you didn't. You don't like her." "She's okay. A little strident. But she's a reporter and I don't need any reporters. I was hoping Toad could waltz her off for drinks and whispers, and you and I could be alone." Callie giggled. "She had you stereotyped." "Yeah, as a Mark One, Mod Zero military Neanderthal. All Toad did was act like one." 0 0 0 Judith Farrell sat in a stall in the ladies" room off the lobby with her purse on her lap. She smoothed a thousand-lire note and wrote on it in block letters, "The rabbit was good.

  You must try it soon. She placed the pen back in her purse and made some noise with the roll of toilet paper. She flushed the toilet, and after washing her hands, handed the thousand-lire note to the rest room attendant on her way out.

  The street was too dimly lit. Jake swore to himself when he realized not doing to well adjusting; He stumbled twice and felt Callie's arm on his elbow.

  "Ha! How does it
feel to lead a blind man?" "You just need some practice in this light." "Like hell. I just need more light." "Don't we all," she said mildly and tightened her grip on his arm.

  "Why are we out here, anyway?" "Because we both needed a walk." He relaxed a little when he realized he could see, though not very well.

  How the devil had he flown like this? It was a miracle he was still alive. He snorted again.

  "Maybe it would be better if you put your hand on my arm and let me stay about a half step ahead." They tried it, and it did work better. "See, you can feel me step up or down." "Yeah," Jake said sourly.

  "Don't you wish you had eaten your carrots all these years?" Jake found himself smiling. He swung her around and hugged her. Four blocks further on they came to a small bistro and sat at one of the outside tables under an umbrella labeled "Campari," after a local wine. They each ordered a glass. Light from the window behind them fell upon the table and traffic rattled by.

  "Do you want to stay in the navy now that you can't fly?" "I don't know. That beach house sounds awfully good right now. But I'm not sure how it would wear in six months or a year. I'm afraid I'd go stir crazy." "You could always find something to do. Perhaps open a shop. Or go back to school for a master's. Don't think you're going to sit and wait to grow old." Her tone implied that if he did think that, he had better rethink it. "Perhaps you could teach classes at some civilian flight school." "I don't want to see and smell and taste it and not be able to touch it." He sipped the wine. "But I guess I've nothing to complain about.

  Flying has been pretty good to me.

  "I guess it has," she said. "You're still alive, in one piece, reasonably sane." "Hmmm," he muttered, seeing Mad Dog Reed sitting in his office, explaining why he should go on to other things. God, how many of those faces had he seen in the last twenty years? So many dead men, so many withered, malnourished, blighted marriages, so many kids with only part-time fathers or no father at all, so many talents squandered and dreams shattered when careers went on the rocks or promotions failed to arrive. What had all this waste... what had it bought?

  And Jake Grafton? What had he spent the last twenty years doing?

  Driving airplanes! Dropped some bombs in Vietnam, and we lost that one.

  Taught a bunch of guys to fly, pushed a few mountains of paper, and drilled a lot of holes in the sky. Made a lot of landings. Got promoted.

  What else? Oh yes, spent fifteen years married to a beautiful woman, but only was there about half the time.

  And buried some guys. Attended too many memorial services and too many changes of command, too many retirement ceremonies, made too many false promises about keeping in touch.

  "I'm glad," he said at last, "that you think I'm reasonably sane.

  An hour later they watched the moon set from their hotel balcony. As it sank toward the sea it appeared embedded in the clouds, which glowed with a golden light.

  "You know," Jake said, "I guess it's the flying I've always went back to." The lower edge of the moon slid into the sliver of open space between the clouds and the sea. The sky with all of its moods and all of its faces was always new, never the same twice. But the flying, the flying-the stick in his right hand and the throttles in his left, the rudder pedals under his feet, soaring as he willed it with the engines pushing-the flying was pure and clean and truely perfect. When strapped to an ejection seat, encased in nomex and helmet and mask and gloves and survival gear, sucking the dry oxygen with its hint of rubber, he was free in a way that earth-bound humans could never understand. As he sat here tonight he could feel the euphoria and freedom once again as the flying came flooding back and he flew through an infinite sky under an all-knowing sun. Irritated with himself, he shook the memory off. "For what?

  I'm no wiser, no richer, certainly not a better person. Why in hell did I keep going back?" "Because you couldn't leave it, Jake," Callie said softly. "I'm not going to miss the night cat shots, though. I've had enough of those to last three lifetimes. I'm not going to miss the damned paperwork or all those long, miserable days at sea with no mail. And the ruthless, implacable bastards that make it all happen-the "results matter, everything else is bullshit" crowd-I won't miss them either." He realized he was feeling his pockets for cigarettes. "I guess the bag is empty.

  Maybe I just never had any answers and am finally old enough to realize it." "Whom are you trying to convince?" "Myself, I guess." He examined his hands with the chewed fingernails, then remembered Majeska doing that not many hours before, so he stuffed his hands into his pockets. "We all go through life making choices, and each of us has to live with his choices, good, bad, or indifferent. But occasionally, every now and then, someone makes a mistake and finds that he can't live with it. And he can't correct it." "Not you, I hope?" "A guy on the ship." "Someone I know?" "Yes." He slouched deeper into the chair, his chin almost on his chest, and stared at his feet stretched out before him.

  "That's what religion is for, Jake. It teaches us to live with mistakes we think we can't live with." She touched his arm. "That's God's grace.

  "Well, I'm no chaplain. "Jake sat silently watching the moonset, then finally levered himself from his chair and went inside.

  Callie sat and watched the moon's glow fade as it slipped lower and lower into the sea. When she heard him dialing the phone, she stepped in through the open door.

  "This is Captain Grafton. Who am I talking to?" She knew he must be on the phone to the beach duty officer at fleet landing.

  "Okay, Mr. Mayer. I want you to get on the radio to the ship, talk to the OOD. Ready to copy? Have the senior chaplain aboard tonight go see Commander Majeska immediately. Tell the chaplain it is an urgent request from me. That's it. Got it?" He listened a moment, muttered his thanks, then hung up. "John Majeska?" she asked.

  He nodded miserably and gathered her into his arms.

  Judith Farrell was sitting in a corner of the hotel bar facing the door when Toad Tarkington walked in, saw her, and came her way. There were two couples seated at tables in the windowless, paneled room, and several men stood at the bar chatting with the bartender. An opera murmured from the radio sitting on the ledge behind the bar.

  "May I sit down?" Toad dropped into a chair before she could answer.

  "Listen, I owe you an apology. Several apologies, in fact. Tonight I was just trying to move you out so Captain Grafton and his wife could have some time alone together. Honest, I didn't mean to upset you.

  I've got two sisters who have fought like hell for decent jobs, so I know how hard it is for women to find them." "Did you come here just to say that to me?" He nodded.

  "And to buy you a drink. Please, will you accept my apology?" "Ah reckon," she drawled thickly.

  He leaned back and laughed. "Thanks.

  Maybe we should start over. I'm Toad Tarkington." He stuck out his hand.

  She took it, and he found her hand was dry, warm and firm. "I'm Judith Farrell, Mr.

  Tarkington." "Call me Toad. Everyone does." "What's your real name?" "Robert." "Why did you really come back to the hotel this evening, Robert?" "To apologize. You're a nice lady and I felt pretty miserable." "Oh. I was sitting here thinking you might have had a romantic motive." Tarkington flushed. "Well, I confess that the possibility of a little romance might have been lurking somewhere way back there amid the cobwebs in the attic. After all, if you were some ugly old matron with three chins, I would have been nicer to you in the first place and my conscience wouldn't have squirmed and writhed and tortured me so." She laughed, a deep, throaty laugh, and her eyes twinkled. "You impress me as a man who knows a lot of girls, but not many women." "I know one or two," Toad said, well aware that he was on the defensive, yet unable to keep silent.

  "You see them as girls. Soft, cuddly little things." It was true. He stared uncomfortably across the table. In the past, one or two of his female acquaintances had thrown down this gauntlet and he had walked away, unwilling to discuss his feelings.

  The urge to leave was there now, but th
ere was something else, too. This Judith Farrell.

  The bartender came to the table and they ordered.

  Small talk, Toad thought, small talk. Chat with her, man. But for the life of him he couldn't think of anything to say. She broke the silence. "How long have you been in the navy?" He opened his mouth and his life story came pouring out. In a few minutes he realized he was making a fool of himself. He didn't care.

  He gestured and tried to say witty things and kept his eyes on her as she smiled appropriately and watched his face.

  The drinks came and he paid. By now she was talking and he found her comments deliciously humorous.

  Judith Farrell was certainly no girl. She was a mature, adult woman, happy with life. Perhaps contented was the word. He found her enchanting.

  Then, in the middle of a story about her family, she gathered her purse in her left hand and pushed her chair back a millimeter. She finished the tale with a flourish and as he laughed, stood up.